“Well, then,” replied Mathieu, “there must be another apprentice at the wheelwright’s.  My information is precise, it was given me officially.”

After a moment’s perplexity La Couteau made a gesture of ignorance, and admitted that Mathieu might be right.  “It’s possible,” said she; “perhaps Montoir has two apprentices.  He does a good business, and as I haven’t been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothing certain.  Well, and what do you desire of me, monsieur?”

He then gave her very clear instructions.  She was to obtain the most precise information possible about the lad’s health, disposition, and conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him, whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth.  Briefly, the inquiry was to be complete.  But, above all things, she was to carry it on in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy himself nor the folks of the district.  There must be absolute secrecy.

“All that is easy,” replied La Couteau, “I understand perfectly, and you can rely on me.  I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next come to Paris.  And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at two o’clock, at Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine.  I am quite at home there, and the place is like a tomb.”

Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with his son Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and questioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps he had taken.  When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for the Wednesday of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way:  “Come and fetch me.  I wish to question that woman myself.  I want to be quite certain on the matter.”

In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette’s nurse-office in the Rue Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame Broquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie.  The sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such a decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality and respectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one.  But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature that she was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way a distinguished figurehead for the office.  She was already thirty and was still unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothers laden with whining children by whom she was surrounded.  Moreover, M. Broquette, her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretly remained the all-powerful, energetic director of the place, discharging all needful police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remaining ever on the watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of his suspicious, dingy lodging-house.